


And We Make Our Mistakes

by voxangelus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Come At Once, M/M, Sibling Incest, and you get a hamilton lyric, everybody gets a hamilton lyric!, you get a hamilton lyric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6338335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxangelus/pseuds/voxangelus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking care of his baby brother was his purpose in life, and he'd do anything Sherlock needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Make Our Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luvsev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsev/gifts).



> Written for Round 6 of Come At Once. As yet unbeta'd. My first Holmescest, be gentle with me.

Mistake. It was a mistake. He knew it was. No question. He knew it, felt the enormity and consequence of it as surely as he felt the slick, sweaty, post-coital weight of Sherlock draped across his chest, covered in bruises and welts, his long hair tickling Mycroft’s chin. 

It was a mistake, yet he’d kept repeating it. There was no learning from this particular repetition. And he’d known. He’d known as soon as he’d made it the first time. Mycroft did not make mistakes, as a rule. This damning continual mistake was large enough that he had felt the need to achieve perfection in all other areas of his life. 

The first time. Sherlock had been seventeen, visiting him in London at Easter break. He’d crawled into Mycroft’s bed in the dead of night. It wasn’t as though Mycroft hadn’t noticed that while he’d been at university, pushing through double firsts in history and political science and then masters’ studies in the same, that Sherlock had grown into himself. He had gone from a skinny little boy with scrapes on his knees to the tall, lithe, gorgeous creature rubbing up against him, pleading for permission to wrap those plush, bow-shaped lips around Mycroft’s cock. Begging Mycroft to show him what to do, how to please him. Mycroft would have liked to blame being barely awake for acquiescing. He tried to convince himself of it, later. But Mycroft also was not in the habit of lying to himself. He had wanted it, wanted to be the first (only) person who Sherlock bestowed this particular favour upon, wanted to teach his baby brother to suck cock like he’d taught him scores of other things. 

Sherlock had been a quick study, just as he was with almost everything else. By the time he went back to school, he knew quite well how to please his brother with his mouth. Mycroft sent him off with admonitions that it must stay between them, feeling like the worst kind of pervert predator as he murmured every warning into desperate, panting kisses the last night of Sherlock’s visit. 

That summer had been even worse. Even better? Mycroft still had no idea how to even classify it. Sherlock came to stay for the better part of his summer holidays while their parents went abroad. Sherlock at home waiting for him every night, a personal fucktoy at his disposal, willing to do anything his older brother suggested. Mycroft spent his days collecting people and information, making himself invaluable to his superiors. His nights, he spent educating his brother on the finer points of pleasure and pain. He was absolutely sure he was addicted to the way Sherlock’s perfect arse went red with every strike of his hand or his belt. Or perhaps it was an addiction to how he begged for more no matter what Mycroft wanted. 

When Sherlock returned to school for his final year, he was full of chatter about a boy he’d met, a new student. Mycroft assumed that was that. He wasn’t stupid enough to get attached to that particular aspect of their relationship. Absolutely not. 

The vicious pleasure that coursed through him when Sherlock climbed into his lap one afternoon over the holiday break when their parents were out and murmured that Mycroft had ruined him for boys his age? A mere coincidence. He took the opportunity to ruin Sherlock even more right there on the hearthrug, his possessive grip leaving ten round bruises on the milky-pale skin of his hips. 

That spring brought a significant promotion for Mycroft, all according to his plan. It also brought a week of utter debauchery over Sherlock’s Easter break, celebrating the anniversary of their incestuous sexual relationship. 

The guilt became too much after that. Sobering, even, as he looked around at this peers at his level with their respectable opposite-gender spouses and tidy personal lives. To rise higher, he had to give the semblance of normality. He refused to have Sherlock visit over the summer, claiming to be too busy at work. He began courting a mild-mannered society girl, just out of university. 

Sherlock came to London anyway, picked the locks to Mycroft’s flat, and was waiting on the sofa when Mycroft brought the girl home for the first time. He sent her home, apologizing for the ‘family emergency’ and then had a blazing row with Sherlock that ended in Sherlock leaving in a towering fury. 

Two days later, he was sitting next to his baby brother in a squalid drug den, waiting for an ambulance, and blaming himself for Sherlock’s reaction. This had to stop. All of it. He made sure Sherlock got into university, had decent living arrangements, but refused to see him but at family gatherings surrounded by others. 

Over the next ten years, Mycroft continued to rise. By 35, he had command of far more of the British government than anyone could have imagined. Sherlock managed to scrape a graduate degree in Chemistry in-between stints in rehab when Mycroft could convince him to stay there. Sherlock somehow fell into consulting for New Scotland Yard, and the DI he was working with demanded that he be clean to do so, accomplishing more in a five-minute talk than Mycroft had in a decade of pleading. The DI was also completely impervious to threats and bribery, and thus Mycroft approved. 

He didn’t expect that this newfound sobriety would bring Sherlock back into his bed, apologies falling from his lips, pleading for forgiveness that Mycroft felt completely inadequate to grant. His was the greater sin. He had neglected to protect Sherlock, what he had considered his most important job since their mother had placed a red-faced wailing bundle into his arms and told him that he must always look after his brother. What could he do but welcome him home and allow him to take what he wanted? 

The next five years were almost blissful. Sherlock didn’t overdose once during that time, although Mycroft wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d stopped using completely. He was supporting himself as a consulting detective. He was back to spending a great deal of time in Mycroft’s bed. Nobody thought twice about brothers spending time together in private or public, and once Mycroft found a capable PA who was willing to take over most of the duties of a society wife as far as social engagements went, it became even easier to carry on his illegal, immoral, illicit, and bloody fucking irresistible affair with Sherlock. 

He’d thought John Watson would be the end of it, truly. He was Sherlock’s perfect foil. Still, Sherlock still came to him. Mycroft suspected it was on nights when John had dates. He could feel the end coming, the time he still had to be Sherlock’s everything stretching thinner and thinner, taffy pulled almost to the point of snapping. He steeled himself for the break, knowing each time could be the last. He found he quite liked Dr Watson in spite of expecting he would be the one to finally take Sherlock from him. He was wrong. 

Mycroft, for all his foresight, planning, and omniscience, had not predicted the Moriarty nor the extent of his influence and network. 

Sherlock’s fascination with the criminal mastermind was absolutely galling. The business with Irene Adler didn’t even come close to being half as infuriating as everything else involving that little shit.

Then, Sherlock had arrived one night, sober and serious, and told Mycroft that he needed to die. He outlined the endgame Moriarty was steering them toward. They came up with several scenarios between emotional, desperation-fueled fucking. No, not fucking. He had to stop lying to himself. It was lovemaking; it had always been lovemaking. So, he assisted Sherlock in his fall, resigning himself to God knew how long without him - because what Mycroft wanted or needed didn’t matter. It never had done. He would do anything for his baby brother, without hesitation, because that was his purpose in life. 

When he got word that Sherlock had been captured in Serbia, he refused to allow anyone else to undertake the rescue. He had done this. This was his responsibility. He hated fieldwork, but he loved his brother. There was no question in his mind. He had made many mistakes, but he would fix as many as he could, beginning with bringing Sherlock home. 

And when Sherlock insisted on going straight to Mycroft’s upon their arrival back on British soil, Mycroft once again found himself unable to refuse him. It was a mistake, a perversion, a crime - and he didn’t care, not when he had the man he loved falling apart in his arms. 

“Stop thinking. It’s been almost twenty years,” Sherlock murmured. 

And Mycroft did.


End file.
